Cuts
by Commander Fiction
Summary: Sometimes it isn't feeling what gets to a person, it's the opposite of that. (He hurts himself at night. Not because he's tired of feeling the pains and stresses of Starfleet life, but because he can no longer feel them). Warning: Self Harm. Oneshot. Sad Fic. It was stuck in my head.
1. Chapter 1

**Cuts**

 **"** **No, you have it all wrong-I don't cut myself because I'm trying to kill myself. I cut myself because I'm fighting so hard to stay alive."**

He hurts himself at night. Not because he's tired of feeling the pains and stresses of Starfleet life, but because he can no longer feel them.

Each night he pulls out that razor blade, dragging it ever so lightly across the tender skin of his forearms. He doesn't cut deep, no he only pierces the skin just enough for the skin to puff red and form a single droplet of blood.

He doesn't cut deep, no, he only cuts the surface.

The pain that comes from the stinging of irritated skin is enough for him. And it's not because he's afraid to cut deeper, no he can slice down if he wanted to, but that'd leave scars, scars that he can't hide forever. No, these delicate slices heal quickly and scab within days, and soon there's not even a trace of a cut there.

But why?

Deeper cuts only cause more attention, he doesn't want that. He also doesn't want to do it because of what he might feel, or in better words, what he might not feel.

Cutting deeper is supposed to sharpen the pain, to make it last. But he's cut deep before, he's drawn his blood across the bathroom floor, it doesn't make him feel, it makes him become numb and dizzy.

He doesn't want that, he wants to feel something.

So he plays a game, drawing along his skin. He pushes the blade in and slices gently across, he tests how far he can cut without scarring, he tests just how much pressure his skin can withhold before breaking away.

He doesn't cut deep, because he doesn't want people to find out, to ask him why there are scars trailing up and down his arms and legs like an endless labyrinth. He doesn't cut deep, because light cuts fade before anyone notices.

He cuts lightly, because even though they're not as painful, they hurt the most.


	2. Chapter 2

**Cuts**

 **"** **In truth you like the pain; you like the pain because you think you deserve it."**

One cut.

It's for Chekov. The Russian boy came to Starfleet with all his excellence wrapped in innocence. He was a beacon point for those needing childlike company. But with time, the redhead has changed, he's grown too old, and he's too far young to carry these burdens.

So that cut is for him.

Two cuts.

It's for Uhura. She's a woman of elegance and beauty. The communications officer holds herself with pride and demands respect from everybody. Dangerous and mean she may be, but in the blink of an eye she's kind and caring, mother like. But she hurts in her heart, unable to truly find love, unable to make a family of her own.

So that cut is for her.

Three cuts.

It's for Sulu. The Asian man is definitely a family man. He has a family at Yorktown, awaiting his arrival. Yet he's there, on the bridge putting in his long hours of work. There's constant pressure on the pilot to steer the clear of danger. When instead he could be relaxing with a family that many people wished they had.

So that cut is for him.

Four cuts.

It's for Scotty. The Enterprise's greatest engineer spends his days in the depths of the ship's belly, fixing and tweaking systems and consoles. He puts in one of the most work, and it's truly because Scotty is indeed in love with Enterprise. But the man is growing gray hairs early because the constant wear and tears of Enterprise life. The Scotsman sleeps and breathes Enterprise.

So that cut is for him.

Five cuts.

It's for Chapel. She's one of the best nurses in the all damn universe. The blonde works her butt off, making serious injuries look small. Nurse Chapel has a gentle touch and even gentler voice, being able to keep her patient calm and steady throughout the entire procedure even if they're gushing blood out. But she too doesn't sleep; only she's wrecked with horrible nightmares of past failures.

So that cut is for her.

Six cuts.

It's for Spock. The vulcan has earned his way to this position of power, and there's so much more he deserves and some many things he didn't deserve. Being First Officer is certainly no Captain, and Spock has obviously earned the right to be one. He also worked so hard and has gotten so far, only to lose so much, like his beloved mother and even his whole planet. Who deserves that?

So that cut is for him.

Seven cuts.

It's for Leonard. It's for his own damn Bones. Oh, Bones doesn't need this, he deserves so much more. The southerner pours his passion and love into everything he touches, including Jim himself, and Jim doesn't deserve this love, this unconditional love that keeps pouring from Bones' heart. Bones should focus on himself, be not Bones, but Leonard McCoy, because Leonard McCoy is broken too.

So that cut is for him.

Eight cuts.

Eight doesn't make it halfway, the blade falls from his bloody fingertips. A breath fills the air and for a heartbeat it's silent, Jim only hearing the gentle drip of blood meeting the bathroom floor. Then there's a soft exhale and a voice that's laced with such kindness and love that it breaks Jim's heart.

"Oh Jim, why did you do this to yourself again?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Cuts**

 **"** **Secrets like depression, eating disorders, self harm, or anything, are hard to keep. It's hard because you want someone to know. You want them to ask why you're sad, why you won't eat, what happened to your wrists, or legs. And as good as it feels to let it out, you regret it immediately."**

The Captain never arrived on the Bridge, leaving the crew anxious. It's Spock who suggests someone should go check in on him, after several failed attempts at contacting him.

Uhura stands from her desk, silently offering herself.

Spock nods in her direction, "Please make contact once you've assessed the situation Lieutenant Uhura."

Nyota just smiles and makes for the turbo lift, letting it take her to Jim's floor. The second the door slips open, she tries her best to not sprint to his door in worry.

Surprisingly, the room is dark, and completely quiet. She waves her hand over the sensor and the door complies, swishing away to reveal the Captain's quarters.

It takes a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Not seeing him in his bed, she cautiously continues forward, nervousness pitting in her stomach. Then she sees the bathroom door open, letting light pool into the room.

And there's Jim, sitting against the wall, legs bare and outstretched before him. He's wearing nothing but his boxers, but his clothes are neatly folded on the counter. The blond's hair appears damp and plastered to his face, making his eyes spark a bright blue. But contrasting his pale skin is the vibrant red droplets running down his forearms, tapping against the bathroom floor gently.

She barely holds back a gasp when Jim reaches forward to drag the razor blade against his skin.

But before he gets a proper cut in, Nyota calls out to him brokenly, "Oh Jim, why did you do this to yourself again?"

Jim drops the razor, letting it hit the floor with a rattling clank which instantly sends him into tears.

Nyota carefully approaches. She's seen this before. She used to catch him doing it during the Academy, but she thought he'd stopped once they got out into space.

Apparently not.

"Oh sweetheart, it's alright, let me see."

She kneels down beside him, grasping his chin to tilt his eyes to meet her own. Jim's eyes are full of galaxies, twinkling with youth and zeal. So young, yet so old. Tears stream down freely and his chest heaves shakily.

"Honey, it's alright." She whispers, pressing a kiss to his forward, producing a wet sob from her Captain's lips, "Shhh," Nyota hushes, stroking damp golden hair.

Jim shakes his head, but Nyota places a kiss onto his hair, wrapping her arms around him, "It's okay Jim, I'm not mad at you. Just let it all out sweetie."

With the open invitation, Jim begins to sob harder into her chest, arms tangling around her waist, tears soaking her uniform.

She rocks him gently, her chin resting on the top of his head as she hums a lullaby her mother used to sing to her as a child. The lullaby seems to work, because within minutes Jim's left hiccupping, breathing steadying.

Then kindly, she lets him rest back up against the wall, wiping his tears away with her sleeve before examining his arm.

"Is there medkit in here?"

Jim nods, sniffling to calm himself, "D-desk." He stammers, biting his lip to stop it from trembling.

She smiles, rubbing his bicep, "I'll be right back."

Quickly she hops to her feet and fetches the medkit, returning moments later to find Jim in the same position she left him in.

"Alright, let's see that arm of yours."

Jim nods slowly, and Nyota sees a flicker of familiarity in the situation as she takes his arm, wrapping the gauze around it carefully. The blond watches her as she wraps his forearm with perfected technique.

Suddenly, her comms go off.

"Spock to Lieutenant Uhura."

Nyota gives Jim a warming smile before answering, "Lieutenant Uhura here."

"Lieutenant, what is this status of Captain Kirk? Does he require medical assistance?" Spock inquires sternly, and Jim's eyes widen.

Quietly, she places her hand on Jim's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze, "No, the Captain is quite alright, merely overslept after a late night, we'll be up in the Bridge shortly. Lieutenant Uhura out."

She kills the connection and laughs when she sees the grin on Jim's face.

"Alright, I think your arm will be okay. If it gets infected let me know." She tells him, using her mother tone on him, and Jim nods obediently, "Yes ma'am." He replies quietly.

"That's a good boy." Nyota pats his head, standing, "Now get dressed, I'll be right out here."

She stands outside, hearing the bathroom door close as Jim cleans himself up and gets dressed for the day.

It's only a few moments later the door slides back open, the blood cleaned from the floor and the razor blade out of sight. Jim's dressed in his Captain's uniform, hiding the bandage underneath the sleeve. No one could've guessed he'd just been sitting on the floor, cutting himself open.

Her Captain is smiling, the brokenness she witnessed minutes before is gone.

"You alright?" She asks, grasping his hand to pull him to the door.

Jim grins softly, "I have to be."


	4. Chapter 4

**Cuts**

 **"** **Sometimes it's better to be alone, because the only person that can hurt you is you, and at least you can see that coming."**

He really tried to stop, he really did.

But the holiday season always settled deeply within his heart.

The Enterprise is scheduled for two weeks shore leave to make up for the lack of Thanksgiving vacation, New Year's is always celebrated on the ship so the crew didn't expect to get any more days off for the that.

Jim wouldn't consider himself a selfish man, but hearing everyone's plans on how they were going to spend their Christmas on the planet really got him bummed out.

The planet they're now currently posted at, since today is their first day of shore leave, is the lovely Vulnus II, full of lush green trees, averaging around fifty meters high, and half the area covered in rich dark waters. The planet itself is void of all life but plant, plants that contain no pollen so nothing is released into the air. Bones was very skeptical at first, saying everyone was going to die of allergies, but Spock had reassured the doctor that no such thing would happen since the plants repopulate with their roots.

During this time of the year, Vulnus II has light showers of rain and sometimes snow, depending on how cold the temperature.

Now, ending Delta Shift, Jim has excused the crew to pack their things and get ready for leave. A skeleton crew will be stationed on the Enterprise from the Federation Station while the crew heads down in shuttles.

Sighing, Jim collects himself from the captain's chair, smoothing down the imaginary wrinkles and smiling softly at the familiarity of the texture beneath his fingertips,

He hasn't cut himself since Uhura found him.

That was five weeks ago. The craving has gotten worse.

There's a feeling in his gut that tells him he's going to break that streak tonight.

By the time he packs and gets onto one of the last shuttles, the Enterprise's senior crew has already beat him there by several hours.

Upon arriving on the surface, the fresh air comes to him in waves of saltiness with a gentle breeze toiling through. He adjusts the bag on his shoulder and steps off, saying small goodbyes to the crewmen who begin to part different ways to their assigned quarters for the remainder of their two weeks stay.

Jim heads to his own assigned cabin, glad that he has all the perks and got one all to himself, which he secretly requested, though he doesn't have to tell Spock and Bones that. He just would rather spend this holiday time by himself. Since meeting Leonard McCoy, there hasn't been many times where he gets to spend a holiday or a birthday by himself. Bones always made sure he was there, to make sure Jim didn't drown in his own vomit from drinking himself stupid.

But not this time. Bones has gone on and on about some party that the Medbay team has planned. It's the first time in years Bones appeared excited about a party, so Jim told him to join their cabin and the southerner did so reluctantly. Jim's certain he'll have a blast, between what Chapel and M'Benga said, it sounds like the medical wing sure does know how to throw party after all.

Bones still felt bad about leaving Jim by himself, but Jim said he'd spend more time with Spock. But Bones doesn't know that Spock's already halfway up a mountain. The vulcan mentioned something about meditating, it's like cherry pie to the First Officer.

So Jim's by himself, and honestly he's okay with that.

Chekov and Sulu are being taken by Scotty and Keenser to go camping, instead of sleeping in the cabins, and Uhura said something about 'girl time'.

He chews his lip. Yeah, he's okay with being alone. He's okay with this.

Jim enters the cabin, the scent musky, almost stale, but he's sure a few hours with open windows will fix that problem. He puts his belongings in the one bedroom, dumping it unceremoniously onto the bed with a solid thud, since it's filled mostly with liquor bottles. Knowing him, he'll probably pass out on the couch rather than the bed.

Gazing about the empty cabin, Jim takes in the dark windows, the graying walls, the toneless wooden floors, and the bare furniture, and the feeling of loneliness pits in his stomach. And not just the realization of being alone, but the physical ache of abandonment and emptiness. The pain where there's a hole in his heart and his lungs feel like they can't take in enough oxygen. Where there's twisting in his stomach and it hurts so much it reaches his fingertips. A constant panging feeling, with each thought it strikes his heart and makes it skip a beat. It's the hurting loneliness where the time slows and all he can think about is the fact he's by himself and his whole body aches, not from any physical pains, just an empty beating in his heart that he can't fix.

It's pathetic really. Or is it?

Jim finds himself in the middle of the room, staring at absolutely nothing.

He's alone like he wanted, but it hurts and he doesn't want it to.

The next few hours are a ticking blur. He vaguely remembers at one moment standing and frantically searching through his bag, but from that point to the point where he stands in front of the bathroom mirror with a razor in his hand is quite unknown to his conscious mind.

He peels off his shirt and examines the previous scars. The scars that were left be other people and the scars that were left by his own hand

Jim lets the blade trace over the most previous scars left by his own hand, the ones where Uhura came and stopped him. The ones that she took care of with gentle hands.

Selfish as it is, but the longing for at least one of his friends to be here grows. He takes a glance towards the bedroom, eyeing the communicator by his bag. All he has to do is pick it up and call someone, but he's not so much as thinking about calling someone, rather more someone calling him as if a sign not to drag the razor into his skin.

But the communicator doesn't ring, and the razor doesn't stop pressing down into his scarred skin. He creates new trails, deeper and thicker than the last, ones that will rub and itch against his sleeves well past Christmas day.

It's irrational he knows. He asked for this, he wanted to be alone. And when people made plans without him, he feels left out. It's stupid and pathetic and he wishes he didn't feel like this, but he does. Because all he can tell himself is that he's overreacting, he's being childish, that he needs to grow up already because he's a captain of a goddamn starship for crying out loud and here he is crying over the fact that his friends decided to do things without him.

The whole thing is a joke, yet he can't stop it from piercing his heart.

With each cut he tells himself he's being selfish, being self absorbed, and exaggerating his situation. But he can't stop the thoughts of abandonment from pitting in his stomach. He knows they didn't abandon him, that there was plenty of opportunities for him to include himself, but he simply brushed them away.

He wanted this, but he didn't think it'd hurt so much.

There's blood everywhere, he's cut too deep and now the world is starting to spin away. He hates himself for doing it. He doesn't like cutting deep, it leaves too big of scars, it's noticeable and people ask questions.

He's cut himself to the point he no longer shakes and he can't seem to process the bloodied razor in his hand. He hates himself for doing it.

Blood tumbles lazily down his arm, dripping incessantly onto the bathroom floor like pattering rainfall.

The razor slips between blood soaked fingers, clattering to the ground.

Jim grips the counter top, steadying his vision with rapid blinks. He couldn't have cut too deep, he's never that careless. He usually doesn't cut like that.

He breathes deeply in and out before settling himself into the tub, drawing the shower curtain.

Slowly his eyes flutter shut, and in the bliss of sleep, he actually forgets the feeling of being alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Cuts**

 **"** **He hates the feeling of having no emotion, feeling so empty. Not feeling happy or sad, just nothing, like blackness. And when his mind is spinning, he still can't feel anything."**

He's died before, physically yes. But mentally is completely different.

Waking up in that bathtub, dried blood coating his arms and the tub itself, is nerve shattering. His world seeming to fall down at his feet. He's a starship captain, he has everything, yet he's lost it all.

Getting up with stiff muscles requires more effort than he'd like to admit. He'd rather lay back down and go back to sleep. To let the darkness claim his mind, to give him bliss. But he's too awake now.

He feels robotic. Like a hollow shell of a man that used to be.

Shaking his head, he stumbles over the lip of the tub, crashing to the floor, right where he belongs. He should be mad, he should curse and shout at himself for being an idiot, but instead he lays there unsure if he should even get up at this point.

Everything just seems so empty.

Blindly he gets to his feet, quickly stripping himself of his clothes, finding the blood unbearable-yet his heart doesn't seem to beat faster and he feels no anxiety.

His mind is a blur as he runs the shower, freezing cold, barely on.

But he doesn't feel his skin tighten at the coldness nor does he feel the icy water numb the cuts.

He doesn't shiver as he steps out, blood all down the drain, cuts red and puffy with irritation. He collects his clothes and deposits them into his room. And with his eyes half-closed he dresses.

The crew needs an appearance-physically that is. Mentally he never left the bathtub.

He walks out, fully clothed. Plaid sleeves itching the fresh cuts on his arms, jean pants rubbing his damp skin. Even though he's barefoot, he can't feel the warmth of the sand between his toes, which disappoints him. Before him is the vast lake, connecting to the rest of the planet's source of water.

The sun shines straight overhead, lighting up the lake's surface with brilliant streaks of gold.

Out in the sand and water are groups of his crew, engineers, security, scientists, and medical staff alike out there messing around.

They seem so happy. Maybe he should just go back inside and enjoy his alone time.

But his feet take him further away from his cabin and closer to the water's edge. Ultimately he stops twenty yards out and collapses into the sand. Sitting cross-legged, watching his crew run around.

He wishes to join them, to skip around and be carefree. To enjoy the planet's tall trees and warm waters.

Instead, he stays there, just watching. He doesn't know how to feel anymore, it's like he can hear time tick by. Each noise that penetrates his ears is just another noise, there's no discernment from voices of people talking to the sound of feet against the ground, it's all the same.

If he's staring, he's not quite sure, his eyes caught on the ground, staring at absolutely nothing. He's not even sure if he's thinking anymore, maybe his brain has just stopped, maybe Khan's super blood doesn't work after all and his body just finally gave out. Or maybe his heart has fallen from his chest-because that's what it feels like.

Emptiness.

He just feels empty. Perhaps he needs to cut himself some more, to feel the blood rush, to have the power of ending his own life in his hands. But the energy it'd take for him to get back to his cabin and do such a thing seems too taxing right now, his body seems glued to the spot.

More people pass by, some even saying their hellos, but all he can manage is a fakest smile of his life and a nod.

God someone shoot him. He should've died in the damned warp core.

He doesn't even feel the pain anymore, or the anxiety. He wants to feel the uncontrollable rage, the one that makes a person break their hand on a wall. He wants to feel the abandonment, the one that makes a person cry themselves to sleep. He wants to feel the despair, the one that makes a person panic inside.

Instead he's hollow. Feeling utterly nothing. Not even loneliness seems to cross his mind anymore. It's like he's accepted his fate. Because after last night's breakdown, how could it get any worse? What's left after this?

"Oh, Jim!"

There's a surprised voice at his side.

Jim barely recognizes it as Leonard McCoy.

There's a thud as the southerner makes himself comfortable beside him, nudging his shoulder playfully.

"The medical staff sure as hell know how to throw a party! Been hammered out of my mind." Bones laughs and Jim's eyes finally tear away from the ground, glancing over at the doctor.

His friend is smiling brightly, the grin reaching all the way up to his eyes, making them crinkle in the corners.

If only he could feel a tenth of what he's feeling.

Slowly the smile fades and Jim wishes he could say something to make it come back, because maybe he could just feel something if it stayed just a tad bit longer.

"You okay Jim?"

Here's his outing. His chance to spill his guts. To tell his best friend everything. Things that he should've told him years ago. He can finally be free of this burden-this burden of being dead inside, of not feeling because the feeling of unwantedness broke him.

But he nods and puts on that fake smile, even though his whole mind is screaming, screaming to be heard, to be let out. Because damn it-even though he can't feel, it hurts, it hurts because it doesn't. He wants to feel but he can't even feel the 'want' anymore. And that'd scare him if he could be scared.

He just feels nothing.

"Yeah, everything's fine."

His own voice echoes away from his lips.

He used to be able to tell people lies and sometimes even believe in them himself. But now nothing seems believable. The only thing the future holds for him is his death and somehow that has become desirable.

Jim doesn't even feel Bones' hand patting his shoulder.

"You wanna get a drink? Scotty took Chekov, Sulu and Keenser camping so they left behind all the good liquor."

"Ahh, no. I'm good." Jim replies, eyes reaching out back towards the waters.

Bones sighs, "Yeah, I should probably lay off on the drinking anyways…"

There seems to be an awkward pause, but Bones is the only one experiencing it.

"You sure you're okay?"

The question vibrates in Jim's ears.

"Yeah, just tired."

It's the easiest answer and easiest lie, yet every time, Bones falls for it.

"Get some sleep Jimbo, we got a whole two weeks to kick back and relax."

Jim nods numbly, "I'm gonna go do that now."

He heaves himself from the ground, brushing away the sand.

"Oh, okay, I'll see ya later right? Tonight some of the crew planned some relay races in the lake-should be fun." Bones says hopefully.

"Okay." Jim responds softly and strolls away, leaving Bones to stare after him.

If Bones called after him, he's not sure. The next thing he knows he's searching through his bag in the cabin, pulling out every single bottle of alcohol he managed to stuff in his bag-because hell, he brought it all.

Every bottle he owns is with him. All the way from throat burning earth liquor to gut wrenching klingon ale and andorian whiskey. After a few bottles he'll be drunk off his ass, which he plans to do.

He goes for the six-pack first, starting easy with the beers, but also saving room for some of that illegal whiskey he has stored up. The alcohol burns and finally he feels something. That burn, he savors it, because through the numbness he can actually feel that one thing. So he drinks more.

Grabbing bottles from the far fetches of the galaxy. A few bottles of romulan alcohol that is almost pure black, to the lime green bourbon of cardassians.

The liquor seers his throat, landing in his stomach, making him want to vomit. But he holds it down and drinks more-even when that kazon ale makes him see stars in his vision.

Sensations flood his body and he almost laughs at the joy of being able to feel something, even if that's the start of alcohol poisoning flooding through-because damn it, it almost feels good. He carries the bottles with him, stumbling to the place where his mind never left, the bathtub.

He grins, collapsing into the tub, bourbon and all.

And soon, he's passed out drunk, with combinations of liquor (that no one should even drink alone) running through his system.

But it was worth something, because even though it hurt like hell, at least he felt hell for the briefest of moments.


	6. Chapter 6

**Cuts**

 **"Sometimes the things we think we don't need are the things we need the most, even if it comes in the most unexpected times."**

He always wanted to tell someone, to finally let someone else know about his predicament. Of course, Uhura has known a since the Academy days, but despite the appearance, they're actually pretty close and she'd die before telling anyone else his secret because she respects his wishes that much.

But other than her, he's always desired to let Bones know. To tell him and let the southerner bring him into his loving arms and just hold him. Somehow, without telling Bones, he just feels like he's all alone in this, that he's the only one here, fighting to stay alive (even though Bones is always there).

Yesterday presented an easy way out, but he clammed up. Of course he's disappointed about the matter, but he also won't complain, because if he does tell Bones, what would the southerner say? Bones would be furious that he didn't tell him sooner.

It'd be a betrayal in their friendship, their trust.

He can't risk that; he can't risk their friendship like that.

But eventually he'll tell Bones everything, but in his own time.

Fate has other plans.

Jim wakes to a silent ring in his ears. His mind is a fog and his eyes don't seem to process the whiteness around him.

He groans, pushing himself into a sitting position only to whack his skull against the bathtub's faucet. Cursing, he rubs his temples, trying to calm the rising migraine from breaking his brain.

Nausea then rises from his stomach, threatening to climb up his throat.

He bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, preparing to heave himself out of the bathtub. His mission ends successfully, but as soon as he's out, he's leaning over the toilet, puking his stomach out.

He liked the burning sensation last night, but not now, not the burning of his own stomach acid ripping his throat. His whole body seems to scream pain with each heave and when it finally stops the moment seems to become surreal.

There's vomit dripping from his lips and his hands are clenched white against the toilet seat.

A smile finds his face and soon he's laughing. Laughing so hard he can't breathe. Because he can't believe this. He can't believe he has just hit the lowest point in his life even though he should be at his highest. Because why should he be complaining? He has friends, good friends, and his job allows him to be with them every day. Why should he complain? He's on shoreleave on the beautiful planet Vulnus II. Why should he feel like this? Nothing's wrong, nothing bad has happened in his life recently.

It's just so peaceful, there's no reason to fall apart now.

Yet here he is, cutting himself and drinking himself into oblivion so he can release his mute cry.

Jim sobers up, the laughs dying from his lips.

Shakily he brings himself to the sink, rinsing his mouth out thoroughly. He keeps his gaze down, avoiding the mirror. He doesn't need to see what he knows is already there. Glancing down, he sees the abandoned razor, stained crimson red.

His heart begins to beat faster, the rushing sound filling his ears.

Jim can just end it quietly. No one said he had to die the hero's death. Nobody said he had to go out in a bang like his father. Why can't he just end it himself? So he can stop wondering what mission or crazy stunt will be his last.

He's a burden to everyone, especially Bones. The southerner worries about him constantly. If he were to die, Bones could finally stop worrying about him, the man could be at peace with his life, maybe leave the Enterprise, or the "flying deathtrap" as Bones likes to call it. His friend could start over; maybe try to gain custody of Joanna.

Bones could be happy.

Jim's on the floor, examining the blade with new interest.

He's just so tired. Tired is the only way to explain this. This world of not feeling. Feeling nothing yet hurting. Hurting to the point where he's empty. Empty and hollow. Hollow like his heart has fallen from his chest.

There's no point in carrying on.

Jim tugs his shirt off and brings the razor to his forearms, to drag it all the way down to wrists, deeply.

But his hand shakes.

"C'mon! Do it you coward." Jim hisses at himself, fighting the internal battle.

He breathes, he can do this. Just push and drag. Push and drag, and it'll all be over soon.

He won't feel much. It'll just feel numb.

Ultimately, he loses, dropping the razor and bringing his knees tight up against his chest, head bowed. If he could cry, he'd cry now. But he's just so broken, it's like he's forgotten how.

But maybe, maybe if he cuts he'll cry. Maybe then his brain will register the brokenness and let him cry his eyes out. Because maybe if he cries it'll relieve some of this emptiness in his chest.

Maybe this one cut will bring meaning to his life, even though the countless others have not.

He's desperate to be like everyone else, carefree and happy. To finally enjoy himself.

Blindly he scoops up the razor and rakes it harshly against his side; his arms are still cut and healing from last time's session. His stomach is more sensitive than his arms, but that only drives him to push harder, yet no tears come. Not even frustration swarms his mind.

It's like he's a blank slate.

Why doesn't this hurt anymore?

"Jim!"

How did he not hear the door open?

Jim jumps to his feet, hiding the razor in his right hand while his left hand clenches at the fresh cuts.

There's a moment of staring, of Jim's brain realizing who stands before him.

"Bones…"

A void opens his in chest.

No, this is not how he wants him to know. Bones can't know, not like this. Not with him cutting himself. Not with him still dragging from the aftereffects of alcohol. Bones shouldn't find out like this. Jim was supposed to confront him in his own time and on his own terms, not him vulnerable and bleeding.

No, this can't be happening to him. This can't be real, because these last few days haven't felt real at all.

"Jim."

Bones' mouth is hanging open and his hazel eyes blink with disbelief. Jim thought he'd see anger and disappointment written across the southerner's face, because knowing their friendship; Bones should be pissed at him for not telling. Yet, Bones' eyes begin to well with tears and his jaw trembles in a way Jim has never seen.

His friend isn't mad.

No, Bones isn't mad. His expression fills with kindness and love. Compassion that Jim doesn't deserve, especially now. Yet its there, written all over the man's face.

Of all times, how can Bones feel this way towards him now?

"Oh Jim, did you…did you do this-to yourself?"

What type of stupid question is that?

He opens his mouth to say no, because damn it, he'll deny it to the end. But his heart betrays him, he finds himself nodding, the tears that he wanted to come minutes ago now threatening to spill.

Jim can't imagine how he looks now. He hasn't bathed in days. There's still blood on the bathroom floor and along with his shirt and bottles of alcohol. His arms are practically pink with irritation, some even infected. And now, his left side is dripping blood, soaking into his pants. And his hair is at a whole new level of messy.

"Jim?"

He shakes his head, looking down. He can't meet Bones' eyes. Not after all of this. Damn it, why can't Bones just be mad at him? That'd be so much easier.

"It's okay Jim." Bones tells him.

How dare he say that.

And it's then he realizes the tears are slipping down his cheeks.

He sniffles, biting his lip, "No," Jim chokes out, "it's not."

There's another pause and Jim watches Bones' feet shuffle, but not forward.

"No, it is Jim. Really." The southerner sighs, "I'm not mad at you."

Jim's heart pounds in his chest, surely Bones can hear it by now. There are so many emotions swirling around in his chest. Things he hasn't felt in ages. He feels so helpless, so scared, so broken.

"Jim," Bones begins ever so softly, it makes Jim's heart flutter so hard, it hurts, "it's okay. And you know what?"

He doesn't look up and he doesn't reply. Instead he squeezes his eyes shut. Maybe if he stands here long enough he'll realize this is all a dream and that Bones isn't actually here. Maybe if he squeezes his eyes shut hard enough, all of this will go away.

"Jim, I'm so proud of you kid, and I love you. No matter what kid."

His heart stops beating.

Jim presses his lips into a firm line, trying to stop the sobs from escaping. No Bones can't be proud of him. He's a disappointment, a failure. Nobody should love him. Everybody would be better off without him. He's such a damn a screw up; he should've died on that damn medical shuttle, because damn it all he was born two and a half months premature.

Bones' breathing seems to be loud in his ears. There's so much life and emotion in Bones, as if with a single breath he could bring Jim back to life.

He tries to hold it all in, so he shakes his head.

Denies it again.

This isn't happening.

There's a sharp breath and Jim can picture Bones composing himself.

"Jim please, I'm so damn proud of you-I don't care what you think. You're enough kid-whatever you got that's okay with me." Bones is almost begging now and Jim's façade is starting to crumble, he can even feel his legs begin to shake.

The southerner takes a step forward, "Jim, I need you kid…You're worth something to me."

Jim tries to shake his head, but instead the sobs escape and he covers his face with his hands.

Coldness seeps into his skin, but within the next moment he's enveloped with warmth. And all his worries and doubts seem to melt away with Bones' strong arms around him. There's a hand pressed against his upper back and another that keeps his head pressed to the southerner's chest. The man smells of mint and wood, like a fresh breath of air in the forest mixed with the distinct scent of honey. Everything about the man is home to Jim now.

Then slowly, as Jim's legs give out, they kneel to the floor.

"I'm sorry." Jim manages, breaking into a fit of silent sobs.

Bones hushes him with his husky voice, "Don't be kid."

Hands rub his back and hair, keeping him firmly there.

For once he feels wanted, he feels loved, he feels desired. This is where he should be, right in Bones' arms. He was wrong, Bones does care, Bones does love him. Why did he ever think different?

Heat floods into his face at the embarrassment.

How could he have been so stupid? Of course Bones cares about him. Why does he always have to be so damned self-centered about everything? It's not like the whole universe revolves around James T. Kirk.

"Darlin', it's okay. It's not your fault."

Jim shakes his head against Bones' chest, "How?" He demands, trembling within his friend's arms.

"Because," Bones says, and Jim feels the cold air hit his face as he's moved away from the warmth of Bones' chest, "you deserve better Jim."

Jim meets Bones' eyes, staring deeply into those hazel eyes. He can feel something within his chest move. It's his heart; it's beating against his chest. He feels alive.

Bones made him feel alive.

"Please don't leave." He whispers.

Arms pull him back against Bones' chest, rocking soothingly, "Wouldn't dare kid."


	7. Chapter 7

**Cuts**

 **"** **There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you."**

Emotion drips from his heart. He feels like there's a gunshot wound in his gut, and maybe there should be one. Maybe he should've died down there and not those three Ensigns. And maybe not that crowd of innocent people.

None of them should've died.

He should've put two and two together faster. He should've realized the Commander's hidden motives.

But he didn't.

He's on the Enterprise. He had walked by a stunned Scotty and then Bones, who was too busy helping Sulu stand that the southerner didn't have time to stop him.

There's blood coating his body. He had been in that crowd of people when the Commander ordered the slaughter.

It had been just like Tarsus.

Instantly he had hit the floor and fled for his life. Sulu got hit and the three Ensigns, Cora, Thompson, and Young were killed.

His mind seems to fade away. He's blindly walking, the colors of the Enterprise blurring away.

Anger and frustration boil in his chest.

It's the feeling of disappointment that makes his feet drag against the floor. It's the utter defeat that makes his mind wheel away. It's the sinking realization of failure that makes it hard to breathe.

His feet heavily hit the ground and the sound of his own breathing rings in his ears.

Millions of thoughts are zooming through his head. Thoughts of how the conversations could've gone different. Thoughts of how his actions could've been better judged. Thoughts of how he could've stopped the whole thing from happening.

It's all his fault, he should've known.

And that thought hurts, it almost kills him.

His failure hurts not just him, not just his damn reputation, but it hurts those around him, it hurts his crew.

That makes his heart shudder in his chest, eyes watering with unshed tears, and jaw clenched tightly to stop the sobs from escaping.

He just wants this pain to go away; he just wants to be himself, to be captain of his starship, for everything to be normal again. But that planet has taken that away from him. That mission gone wrong ruined his chances of settling back into the routine life of captain.

Just wait until the Admirals hear of this one. Golden boy be damned, the Enterprise will be ripped away from him so fast. He'll be nothing more than an outcast.

All because he didn't have his head in the game. Because life caught him off-guard.

Everyone will move on without him, they'll forget his name, forget the times spent together, forget the relationships built.

Jim closes his eyes, leaning against the closed door, cold metal meeting his forehead.

His shaky hand hits the sensor and the door glides away, just like his career.

The second the door closes the angry sobs escape, endless tears running down his face. He feels the ache in his chest rise through him, exiting in gasping sobs, rattling him to his core.

It just hurts so bad, it's an incurable pain. He just wants to punch something, to punch until all he can feel is the throbbing in his hand. But first, he cries. He cries until he has no oxygen left in his lungs, where the tears stop falling, and the ache in his heart has blown away into a gaping hole in his chest, leaving him hollow.

His lungs continue to shudder for breath, making him hiccup as he stands, rubbing tears from his eyes.

Jim stumbles for the shower, the life leaving his body by the second. It's as if his whole life's meaning has been snatched from his hands.

He knows he's going to be okay, he knows that it was just another mission gone wrong, he knows it's just another bump in the road called life. But that doesn't make it any easier to swallow, to accept the failure, to come to terms with himself.

The whole thing hurts and all he has to blame it on is himself.

Jim runs the shower, cold, very cold.

His clothes are piled up on the floor and he closes his eyes as he enters, the water instantly making him shiver and gasp.

The icy water keeps his mind going, rerunning the events over and over again until it makes him cry harder.

Jim sinks to the floor, huddled in the tub, freezing water spraying down on top of him.

The images keep flashing through his mind like a sick cinema. Shouting, screaming, crying, it's all around him. Blood is washing down the drain, but it's not his. The blood belongs to those men, women, and children alike, all slaughtered by the Commander's hand. He can still hear the gunshots, the banging that rings in his ears.

It haunts him.

The coldness that surrounds him keeps him from falling asleep, but it also keeps him numb and confused.

He feels so out of touch, unreal.

The only thing he feels now is the anger, the anger pitted in his heart, pulsing and flickering like the embers of a starting fire.

His lungs are heaving for air, but continued to be unsatisfied. His eyes are being blinded with tears and his nose is running. The wet sobs break through his pressed lips and all his limbs clumsily close around his torso, trying to keep himself quiet, but failing.

Can't he just do one damn thing right?

Why can't he just have it go his way just once? Everything he seems to accomplish always gets ripped right out from underneath him, leaving his hands burned and bloody.

Frustration proceeds to rise and Jim throws his head into the back of the shower, feeling the throbbing pain in his skull. He needs to release the anger. He needs to cut.

But then he remembers something Bones told him a while back. Every time he thinks about cutting himself, he has to call Bones. Damn it all, he isn't going to call Bones.

Jim reaches over the bathtub, grabbing the hidden razor he keeps by the toilet, one of the few sharp objects Bones failed to find.

But his hand shakes. Bones would be so disappointed, more disappointed than he already is. If he can't do anything right, can't he at least try to do this right?

Jim snatches the communicator from his discarded pants and puts the razor back in its original place.

"Bones?" Jim says, his voice small, and he swallows, wanting to retry but the good doctor replies before he can, "Jim you okay? I switched it to a private channel."

Of course he did. Bones knows Jim so well.

"Bones can you c'mere?"

God he hates himself for sounding so weak and scared, but he can't even stop the tremors from racing up and down his body.

"Alright, sit tight Jimbo. Where are you?"

"I…" Jim trails off, glancing up at the showerhead, raining water down on his head, "I'm in my room."

"Okay, I'll be there in minute, McCoy out."

Jim tosses the communicator aside, wrapping his arms around his shaking body.

Bones is there in a flash, the door to his room opening and the soft footsteps of the southerner gets louder as he approaches.

"Jim?"

His breath gets caught in his throat and the look on his face says it all.

Bones steps into view, his gaze sweet and tender, his eyes gleaming with understanding and warmth, "Jim, you okay?"

The doctor comes closer, kneeling beside him, "Hey kid, wanna get out?"

Jim nods.

"Alright, hold on."

Bone turns off the water and grabs a towel to wrap around Jim.

Jim lets himself be led out. Bones then dries him off, Jim cold and compliant beneath his experienced hands.

"It's not the end of the world you know." Bones reassures him, "Well it's the end for all those people that died down there." He mutters darkly, head hanging as Bones takes the towel to his matted hair.

"There was nothing you could've done."

Jim doesn't reply. There's no point. Bones will only continue to try to convince him and Jim will remain forever unconvinced.

Bones gets him clean clothes and straightens up the bathroom as he dresses slowly. Afterwards Bones takes him by the hand and leads him to bed. Jim frowns; he has to do so much right now. Like check on Sulu, record his captain's log, get back on the bridge, sign off on all those dozens of ship and mission reports. Instead, he finds Bones bringing him into bed, throwing the blankets over him.

The southerner then climbs on top of the sheets, sitting propped up with his PADD in his hands.

"Just sleep Jim, I'll be right here." Bones says gently and Jim nods, turning so Bones can only see his back.

He pulls the blanket to his ear, hoping to disappear into the warmth and coziness of the sheets. Yet, his body still trembles lightly, causing him to curl tighter, to find that comfort.

He still can't believe it happened.

Two days ago the Admiralty received a special request from Alfa V, a growing colony planet, which had a rising militia against its leadership. The Enterprise was sent in to help the aid the Commander, as he was known, and provide support and supplies.

Well worse thing went for worse and the Commander was actually part of the militia, using the Federation to get more resources to crush the remaining force.

Somehow Jim didn't see this coming, he let himself get distracted, he was off his game. And this is going to cost him his career. It's all over now.

He can picture the order of the slaughter.

One moment he was standing, beside old friends and new friends. The Commander had just taken his position at the podium, followed by his usual posse of guards. But instead of giving his final speech on their day of victory, he gave an order to have the crowd killed.

Women and children died amongst the men.

Jim can hear the gunshots in his ears, smell the gunpowder in the air, see the bodies hit the floor with silent thuds.

Lifeless eyes fading before him, soulless and empty. People that depended on him died today. It's a repeat of Tarsus. The death that surrounded him, filling his lungs, covering his ears, and ingraining into his vision.

He trembles beneath the sheets.

"Hey, hey."

Hands grasp his shoulder, tugging to pull him from his curled position on the edge of the bed. He then feels the tears slipping down his face, wetting the pillow.

"You're okay Jim."

No he's not, he's lost everything.

"C'mon, sit up kid."

Jim's brought up, his whole body wracking with sobs that leave him breathless.

Strong arms come around him, making him disappear into Bones' chest. He can't hold it back anymore. He's just crying, absolutely silent; the only sound escaping his lips is the sound of his breath hitching in his throat as he gasps.

Bones starts to rock him, guiding his head to his chest, keeping him nice and close.

He latches on, feeling the fabric between his fingers.

"Bones."

It's all he can manage; his voice is broken and raw like he's been screaming for the past hour. He just feels utterly lost and empty. All of the things he's accomplished seems so small and insignificant. It's just him and Bones in the world right now, and that's all he cares about.

He just wants to melt into Bones.

He just wants this hurt, this confusion, this anger, to leave, to let him have some peace of mind.

He can't control it, and that only makes him cry harder into his best friend's chest.


	8. Chapter 8

**Cuts**

 **"** **Character is what you have left when you've lost everything you can lose."**

 **Another burden, another chapter.**

"As for reasons previously mentioned, you have been put on suspension, permanently until further notice. Contact with crewmembers and other Starfleet officers are prohibited unless otherwise authorized…"

There's a pause, a moment of silence as his heart falls from his chest.

"James Tiberius Kirk, it is with much regret that Starfleet rejects your submission for trial. Between your own captain's log and First Officer Spock's, there's nothing left to consider."

Admiral Archer sighs, hands palm-down on the desk, supporting the older man's weight as he gazes heavily into his eyes.

"Captain Kirk, it has been an honor to serve alongside you, I'm sorry but you'll have to hand those in, son."

He nods, his arms nearly shaking with effort, trying not to drop the things he values most in his life, and now he's been asked to give them all away.

If there's a tremble in his lower lip, he hopes Admiral Archer doesn't see it.

Slowly with the loss of dignity, he hands over his folded captain's uniform, along with it his phaser, PADD, and badge. He's been decommissioned like an old starship, ready to be torn down to scraps and awaiting the fiery end of a furnace.

He's escorted out in respective quietness; everybody in the damn building knows he should still be captain, that he should've been in the clear, that he should still be up in the Enterprise alongside his crew. But nobody does anything, they just stare, blankly and soullessly as he walks past, his feet barely leave the floor and his eyes gaze sightlessly at the ground. The spark of light that once was there is gone and any indication of pride and confidence have been drained from him, making him pale and lifeless before the eyes of the other Starfleet officers.

Jim's just glad that none of his crew has to see him like this, empty and dead inside and out.

With sorrow the guards give a little salute once they reach end of the Starfleet property. The second they leave a black shuttle car glides from the street, pulling up to the curb. Jim climbs in without another thought, letting the driver take him back to his apartment.

San Francisco lights never seemed so dim at the summer night's twilight.

His apartment only seems dimmer. He dropped his keys three times before he even reaches the door, because yes his apartment is old school with keys instead of a hand sensor.

The moment he has the door closed behind himself he slumps to the floor, his failures finally weighing down enough on top of him to drive him to tears. He refused to cry before, he wasn't going to give some of those damn admirals the satisfaction of seeing him break.

He sits there stiffly, willing himself not to cry, to only have half strangled sobs escape his lips, fingernails digging into the skin of his forearms to stop himself.

He's like this for twenty minutes or so, staring helplessly at the wall ahead of him, watching it slowly shrink in around him, stealing his breath until he has the nerve to get up, to stumble numbly to the kitchen, digging for any bottle of liquor he has.

It's all there, it's the only thing his kitchen he has. Bottle after bottle he pulls out, popping caps and corks and pouring shot and glass after shot and glass.

Jim pretends that each sip he takes will heal his broken heart, that somehow the sorrow and despair in his heart will melt away. But it only worsens.

His brain begins to pound, his limbs shaking from intoxication.

Before he knows it, it's three in the morning; he's stuck himself in the cramped shoe closest with five different types of alien alcohol bottles swarming his lap.

Is this really the extent of his existence? After everything he's done for Starfleet, this is how they treat him? Throw him out like any other piece of worthless trash. It's not like he's invested his time, his body, his mind, his everything into the program.

He can't count how many times he's sacrificed himself for Starfleet, how many times he's ended up in Sickbay, how many times he's lost brain cells hammering out reports, how many times he's wanted to be anywhere else but in that damn captain's chair, how many times he's been broken down and rebuilt into a better man, how many times he's saved hundreds of lives, how many times he's given his everything into the job.

And just like that it's ripped out from underneath him, leaving him useless and depleted of anything.

How can they just take everything from him like this?

The hopelessness settles in his heart, making each beat hurt against his chest. All his muscles seem to tighten up, like they're all ready to spasm and cramp but just settling in the limbo between, causing discomfort.

His whole life has been poured down the drain with the damn garbage disposal on, shredding anything that might cling on.

The alcohol he sips runs down his throat flavorless, just a burn in his veins and buzz in his mind that doesn't stop.

The worst part of it all is that fact it's out of his hands now. Before he had slight control, he could put in all his effort to create a better outcome. Out there in the black, it was just space and his wits out there, protecting his crew. But now he's been stripped of that power. He has nothing. His crew can no longer see him, he can't go up to the stars, and he has no captain's chair to sit in.

Its times like these a person will truly find out what they're made out of, but Jim Kirk is made up of Iowan dirt and cow shit, with a few bottles of alcohol to finish the blend. He lets his past seize up and the present to weigh him down.

He squeezes his eyes shut; bringing his knees right up against his chest so he can hold them closer to his body with his arms. Maybe if he stays here, like this, upright in the fetal position, with the darkness surrounding him and the smell of dirt and sweat from old jackets and shoes, he'll disappear, fade from the lack of spirit and life. Maybe if he stays here, in this cramped closest, nobody will ever find him, he won't have to eat or drink, he won't have to hear the news going over and over the tale of his decommissioning. Maybe if he stays here, he'll become forgotten, just another thing students will read about in their history textbooks, just another name on the page, just another image printed in black and white, just another failure in the eyes of society. Maybe if he stays here, huddled within the safety of his confinements, his memories, his thoughts, his anguish, his pain, his fear, everything will wither away with the universal idea of time and entropy.

Maybe if he stays here, just a little longer, he'll find that he doesn't care anymore, that his heart will hurt just a little less.

He falls asleep in that closest, he throws up in that closest, and he pisses himself back into sleep in that closest. If there's a bottle with just a drop of liquor in it, he's drinking it down just to welcome the burning sensation again.

It's during the ass-crack of dawn that his head goes spinning out of control because some impatient bastard begins to pound-pound repeatedly-against his door.

Jim squints into the darkness of his closest, making no effort to get up and release himself from his prison.

The knocking subsides eventually, but is only replaced by the sound of someone picking his goddamn lock. Creaking of the door being pushed ajar barely reaches his ears, and he's vaguely aware of the lights now being manually switched on to glow beneath the closest door.

"Jim?" The voice is soft in the empty rooms of his apartment, but Jim remains silent, whoever the hell it is can leave. No one needs to see him like this.

The sound of boots scuffling around is heard, followed by the occasional opening of another door to peek inside, trying to find the one and only occupant of the apartment.

Suddenly the light is blocked from beneath the door, whoever is in his apartment is standing right outside the shoe closest.

Jim can feel his chest beginning to rise up and down faster, his vision wavering in and out, exhale loud in his ears.

Light, blinding light, hits his eyes as the door is thrust open and he can hardly see the Starfleet issued boots and hear a voice echoing in his head.

Hands grasp him from underneath the armpits, shakily hauling him up onto his feet, causing his knees to wobble and give out, landing onto whoever has come to intrude on his privacy. His visitor grunts with the extra weight, pulling him along further into his own apartment, but he simply keeps his eyes shut, focusing on his breathing and willing himself not to throw up on whoever decided to come uninvited to his place.

He's placed-more like dumped-onto the couch, being properly shoved down onto his back, shoes and jacket being taken off by careful hands. The presence leaves briefly, only to return with a wash cloth that goes over his eyes. Fear grips his chest and he makes flighty attempt to tear off the cloth-because he didn't choose this darkness-but the hands stop him, grasping his wrists and slowly showing his arms to lie beside his torso.

Jim manages a whimper, and maybe a few tears-that the cloth couldn't absorb-slip down his paled cheeks because the delicate hands brush them away and then continues to lace themselves into his right hand, fingers intertwining.

He lets the simple act of comfort ease his breathing and his mind, and as he slips beneath the waves of consciousness, he's vaguely aware of the noise of communicator chirping in the distance.


End file.
